


for the world is hollow

by faorism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Past Underage Sex, Purgatory, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awaiting the departure of the Hogwarts Express, Severus wonders if the time will ever come for him to leave the Platform. And try as he may to tell himself otherwise, he fears the answer might just be no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the world is hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather old work that I've finally decided to revamp and archive here. Written for dark_fest 2010.

It is a truth shown with no evidence other than pure experience that the world may never see 11:00. A bizarre fact, but a fact as solid as the stone beneath his feet, the redness of the immortal train in front of him, the blurs of people surrounding him and the burning in the eyes he refuses to let blink. He has seen so many—too many—always just one too many—moments tagged as 10:59 so apathetically by the three clocks he can spy from the alcove he stalks. Right now, more than anything, he wants the long hand on the ancient face of at least one of those clocks to push just a bit further—to carry out its duty as purposefully as he always does (did); but alas, that one moment—11:00—ten minutes after 10:50—twenty minutes before 11:20— _still_ eludes him.

And now, once again, the second hand curves around the familiar circular path and it passes its sister at the spidery _**11**_. ( _the number's typeface weighs down on his lungs—_ the cocky scratch of a quill on his skin drawn by a cockier subject _—so familiar to him yet it goes unnamed in his mind..._ ) He orders himself not to blink—the awkwardness pressing at his eyes is worth it—remember, Severus, remember—don't blink—do not blink—don't...

And even as the tirade attacks his mind, a sickening churning in his stomach disrupts his focus and he knows he will be unsuccessful. Once again he will blink because he knows that the long hand moves over the last ten seconds so slowly that it will never touch **_12_** and 11:00 will never come.

This time, Severus does not close his eyes to quell the dryness, but because a wild blur of an arm raises too close to him. Reflex says to blink and he does blink and when his eyes open, it's 9:30.

He has failed, but neither a sigh or grunt leaves him; neither grief toward energy wasted nor anger toward the man ( _it was a man... not—no longer—a boy... but a man like himself..._ ) whips through his mind. He is simply apathetic, the perfect result of years of practice, a single moment's repetition and his ever maudlin mentality. He feels nothing and everything without a single change to his self other than the intangible effect a blink has on one's skin. But, then again, such a movement is so near negligible that Severus cannot tell if it has even occurred—perhaps the memory is a lie and there has never been a blink at 10:59.

It's 9:51 and there is still much time until 11:00.

He hasn't an interest in the plebeian task of people-watching ( _an activity he does not enjoy in the least bit... the world full of the basest of persons... not worth his time, yet why bother with the thought in the first place? something—_ no; s-o-m-e-o-n-e, yes _—he has missed..._ ), so the blurs continue to contort in an indistinguishable mass of colors, forms and ideas. He hasn't an interest in reading although he feels the heaviness of a beloved book in the inner breast pocket of his overcoat, and he hasn't an interest in moving away from the alcove because it is simply his spot and he has waited here for so long that to leave it behind would be overwhelming taxing. He hasn't an interest in assessing all the intricacies of the glorious red train resting on the other side of the crowd: he has gone over and over and over and overandoverandoverandover every detail of that GWR 4900 Class 5972 Olton Hall ( _how does he knows that..._ a whisper from behind a wizened copy of "Hogwarts, A History" that Severus forced into... _his hands fidget in the smoky air_ ).

He hasn't an interest in anything, but his mind is wandering and this and only this causes Severus to frown. At least it's 10:32, he tells himself earnestly as he glances to one of the three clocks once again: he managed to pass the time without doing anything but thinking about what to do. He is relieved that there is only twenty-eight minutes until 11:00, but how to spend so-little-so-much time? ( _never a problem before... mind always twirling with the latest order, the latest potion he could improve, the latest—_ there's a creative boy with a head good only for what they could do—what they could sneak and get away with—in the breathless touch-and-go moments they had to share... _Why were they rushing so? Oh wait—_ Severus clasped at short, poorly managed hair, forcing the head the mess belonged to against his groin, reveling in the lurid sound of wet lips choking around his cock: only seconds/minutes/half-pulses available: the threat of a stray visitor jealously hastened their surreptitious fuck...)

It's 10:14 and Severus barely notices. He is far too caught up with the visions ticking at the back of his mind to care about something as meaningless as the habits of a few clocks that always tell the right time even when the time is wickedly, misleadingly correct. He knows that they are memories of a time he cannot remember; a time he knows exist(s/ed) but that he cannot name. He also knows that this is not the first time he has thought of these intrusions to his mental space—not the second or third or even hundredth time; and he knows this without true evidence nor with the memory of experience, but by a burning ache of emotion twitching his hands.

And perhaps he should be angry at himself for such circular thinking, but it's 10:32 again and there's only twenty-eight minutes until 11:00 and then before he can absorb this thought, it's 8:48. Two minutes then two hours then ten minutes until the time for the Olton Hall to depart on a winding track to... ( _plans for a humble future mumbled against Severus' sweat-glistened, cum-dried stomach while he was presumed asleep_ ) to... ( _burning betrayal... screams he tosses back with a flick of a wand—leave me shut up you stupid boy shut up_ you know nothing _stop shut up tell me why why why why whywhy_ ) to Hogwarts.

Hogwarts. The color of the word in his thoughts tastes like ash on his tongue, but the resentment and tight obligation he always felt toward the school and its inhabitants are gone, probably due to his apathy... but perhaps not. He does not feel the need to _be_ angry. History has become history; he's too old ( _small fingers trace wrinkles as he traces a jutting scar with his tongue_ ) to bother with the hate that he had once clung onto, hoping that he could attach himself to humanity through his past ventures into it; he wants to look forward... ( _the amorphous crowd shakes and hurries... an arm waves distractedly... it is 9:55... it is 10:06... the train spews its heavy smoke... it is 4:44... it is 10:39... it is 10:59... the second hand on each of the three clocks pushes pass its shorter sister and before it can touch the spidery **12** it is 9:33..._ ) move forward... but to what?

Or, perhaps, for what? ( _ugly—silly—preposterous—once it's said... Severus is told to forget it—_ I didn't mean it, Snape. Stop! Snape, I—aah!—didn't mean it. Don't... that—not so rough I I I I I said I'm sorry please _—but it cannot be forgotten... and when he stares into the biting green for the last time..._

the last time

it is 10:28 __

the last time he looked into the biting green all he wanted was to say goodbye but he knew he could not do such a thing: they weren't like that... they fucked with hard grunts and the wariest of touches... disgust ran down his throat as his hands held on... he dominated a boy who looked like the boy who tortured him, with eyes of a girl he once loved and a clever mind that was unique and a heart that beat with desire for Severus... he dominated, he was given want he wanted but never what he needed...

and Severus knows that he has lost. He does not know how he knows—just a thought he understands is as much the truth as the time on each of the three clocks he can see from his alcove—that he has lost. Lost to a girl who looks like the girl he once loved. Lost to three children with names that read like headstones. Lost to a life that he was not promised, didn't want, but felt utter revulsion toward.

Because H... H... he... P—Potter wwwaas— _Harry is—it is 10:59—it is 9:33—it never is 11:00—his..._

Harry does not knock before entering his Professor's private quarters, careful as to not disrupt the aching night. Severus, just barely awake, sits up, listening to the boy walk around aimlessly as he builds up the courage to approach the bedroom. Tonight, he makes it through the door. Not a word is said but their loose gazes catch each other and Severus can see the prideful expectation in Harry's stricken eyes. He is tempted to reprimand Harry for something, to bully him and to hurt him; he is tempted but instead, he nods. Harry steps closer and his hands are working on ridding himself of his clothes. Fumbling, really, so like a teenager: restlessly impatient. There's a creak in Severus' neck as he pulls off his evening shirt—grading dozens upon dozens of sixteen-inch essays can do that to a person—but it's a dull pain that can readily be treated by hands smaller than his that were always willing to _please. Please Severus... please the one Harry considers—it may never be 11:00—his..._

It is 10:59.  
It is 10:58.  
It is 10:59...  
It is 10:57...  
And Severus knows that Harry is no longer his—

it is 10:58...  
—the crowd contracts, the arm waves again and Severus knows... knows... it's a shadow... it's a wave of distill hellogoodbyewaitformeimsorry that's all for him—

it is 10:59...  
it is 10: 54...  
it is 10:59...  
—harry lives on... severus does... not... and there's little hope that once severus does not live and harry does not live that harry will... little hope... the wave is a shadow, a shadow for him...

it is never 11:00, but the one-of-a-kind GWR 4900 Class 5972 Olton Hall leaves at 11:00 and only at 11:00...

it is 10:59 and he has seen so many—too many—always just one too many—moments tagged as 10:59 so apathetically by the three clocks he can spy from the alcove he stalks. and no matter how much he tries that one moment—11:00—ten minutes after 10:50—twenty minutes before 11:20— _still_ eludes him...

 

 

For the world is hollow, _and I have touched the sky._  
[ -Star Trek: The Original Series, episode 63. ]


End file.
